


Upon a Christmas Eve

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Angst, Despair, Doubt, Friendship, Gen, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Not Beta Read, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 08:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: In the aftermath of the bloodiest battles of the Great War, the wounded and dying still fill the hospital tents, leaving Watson despairing at the scale of human suffering. Christmas Eve finds him at his lowest ebb, when all of a sudden hope arrives, gleaming as brightly as a star.





	Upon a Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WAdvent and since 2018 is the centenary of the ending of World War One I had to do a homage towards the War.

_1916 Christmas Eve_

I was weary beyond imagining. This terrible war which had consumed Europe continued apace. New machines fought alongside the men and women trapped on the Front or behind the lines.

I had witnessed the new tanks which had sallied forth during the battles fought in the Somme. It was a fearful sight, as they rumbled across the torn and violated landscape. Yet these machines broke down frequently, displaying a fragility despite their propensity for violence, similar to mankind.

The horrors of 1916 appalled every sensibility I possessed. The sheer amount of blood shed was sickening. We doctors, nurses and orderlies could not keep pace with the amount of wounded and dying carried off the field.

More than once, when operating on a solider screaming and thrashing on my operating table as my orderlies struggled to pin him down, did I lament volunteering. Always afterwards did shame come hot and quick upon me.

I was a loyal servant of the Empire, but this bloody shamble tried even the most faithful. It caused me to question the very motives of those in power, whether they cared for their people. As I applied maggots to diseased flesh in attempt to save a limb as  well as a life, as I held a nurse as she wept with exhaustion and the broken strength of one who has seen too much…then did I wonder whether God looked down upon his creation and thought why did he send His Son to save us?

Blasphemy.

Yet, what else could a man and seasoned solider think?

Maiwand had been awful but this…this War was different and new.

Machines and man, new and old in one kaleidoscope of horror that tore the mind, ripped the flesh, plundered the depths of human endurance and kindness and stained the soul.

The battle ranging in the Somme finished mid-November, but the hospitals were still dealing with the huge losses at Christmas. British, French and even German prisoners sprawled on our beds and upon blanket strewn ground.

Hating the enemy was easy until you saw him shredded by shrapnel, tank fire, bayonets, fire and ill-health.

Then only pity and a desperate desire for this War to be over suffused your being.

My only relief were letters from Holmes who grew more frantic with each missive. If he had been able to, he would have followed me to the Front, instead of living in our empty cottage in the Sussex downs.

His missives granted me hope and peace: talk of bees and the little crimes that filled a village, but brimming with concerns for my health and the state of the conditions I operated in. Naturally Mycroft kept his brother abreast of every development – indeed, how could he conceal anything from Sherlock if his brother truly wished to know?

Even so, I wished Mycroft would lie to my dear Sherlock, for I would not wish this horror upon anyone, let alone the man who has been companion since 1881. Only a scary bout of pneumonia kept Sherlock from pursing me to the lines and for once, I feared a return of good health.

I missed him terribly however, especially in the depths of night when I heard men moaning or worse…when the hospital was eerily silent, allowing the threat of the sleeping tiger of war to loom over us in a spectre of anticipation.

Then I did wish selfishly for a single glimpse of my dear friend. What a hypocrite I have become! To wish Sherlock to be safe in Sussex, but also to be present with me in this hell, so I would not be alone.

Alas, so it was that Christmas Eve of  1916 found me fatigued in body and spirit, full of nightmarish doubts which chewed away at my will, rendering me on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

As the stars appeared in the sky I could at last seek a reprieve and so stumbled to my private tent, praying for sleep and renewed strength. I ducked in only to come up short.

Pacing within, with the lanterns lit, was a tall form I knew well. Wondering whether my weary eyes deceived me I addressed this long-desired phantom.

“Sherlock?”

The tall form had already turned at my entrance.

Sharp grey-green eyes assessed me, probing my secret thoughts and fears and oh! The emotion showed visibly on that regal face, as clear as the stars above. Sorrow and concern etched in the features I knew so well, older now…hair silver with lines flowing from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

However, his eyes were as bright as ever and his mouth as firm as in youth.

My own visage understandably was altered for the worst: grey and grieved by the woes and horrors of this War I had lost weight and was a mere willow o’ wisp of my former self.

My detective opened his arms and swept me in an iron embrace.

“Oh Watson,” he whispered, full of aching sympathy.

Holmes’ arms were strong about my slight form, offering security and comfort in their strength. I was held close and I could feel the tremors of my body leeching into Holmes who clutched me tighter but said nothing. My dear Holmes abhorred sentiment, but with me he more than once bore openly his feelings, or allowed me to so that I could stop pretending and be free.

His hands stroked my back even as he placed his cheek on my head and rocked us back and forth. The firm gentle sensation of Holmes hands through my rough jacket and the feel of his breath ruffling my hair filled my senses.

This was no phantom but truly my dear friend come to me! Across all dangers Holmes had travelled: the Channel and the dangers of the battle zones had not dissuaded him in his task of finding me.

Holmes was _really_ here and I was safe at last, for with no other could I dare share my private concerns and weaknesses.

Thus did I lay my head down on a strong shoulder and shake all the harder as my entire being swelled with every emotion and thought and blasphemy I had restrained. The emotional waters surged against my mental barriers, as Holmes began to murmur his damned deductions into my ear, about the soldiers and nurses he had met upon his journey.

_“Small woman, yet afire with a strength in her tiny frame which would put a six foot miner to shame. From the slums of Whitechapel because-”_

His voice droned on, while I clutched at Holmes, feeling his solid presence and inhaling the scent of his old-fashioned hair oil, (sweet and fragrant, a contrast to the stench of death or the sharp smell of carbolic soap).

Holmes was alive and in my arms and I was with him. He was around me and entertaining me as usual when we sat once upon a time in a world long past, smoking our pipes or racing after a crime.

Swept upon the currents of comfort and familiarity I could feel my defences crumbling until, as Holmes gently led us to my bed and forced us to sit still entwined my barriers broke at one word.

“Watson.”

My name said as if Holmes was just as astonished at having me here in his presence. I buried my head once more upon his shoulder and gasped as my mind fragmented.

Finally, at last, I wept.

I cried at what I had witnessed, at the shattered lives I sewed together, the damaged minds I could do little to save and the men and women who perished despite our best efforts.

I sobbed my doubts and my anger out until I was a hushed form huddled in Holmes’ arms. Holmes held me throughout and once I was silent, he laid us down so we could sleep.

My detective’s eyes were wet, his cheeks shining from his tears.

“Oh Watson,” his voice was a mere rasping thing. His delicate hands shook as he pushed my hair back and settled us.

I lied well to the public as did Holmes, for this grand man was cool towards others, though kind and just when he felt the cause and person right.

Yet, towards me he had nearly always been emotional. Truthfully, full of sentiment is my dear Holmes, as am I.

And now we were together for Christmas and tomorrow’s troubles would not be any less perilous, but they would be less of a burden, for Holmes would share them whether I willed him to or not.

So, I smiled and relaxed and as sleep rapidly claimed my exhausted body and spirit, I saw Holmes watching over me, a sentinel sent forth to ensure I was not alone.


End file.
